


Call Me By My Name

by biextroverts



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, F/F, F/M, Names, Relationship Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-03 21:38:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10975833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biextroverts/pseuds/biextroverts
Summary: Murphy has never liked it when anyone has called him "John" before, and no one has ever said Clarke's name quite the way that Lexa did.





	Call Me By My Name

**Author's Note:**

> My first ao3 foray into a world other than f/f, because drawing parallels is my favorite thing to do.
> 
> A note on chronology: none of this fic exactly "takes place" anywhen because it's a look into Murphy and Clarke's heads, but technically the Memori segment is supposed to take place mid-season 4, and the Clexa segment is supposed to take place circa 3.08 or 3.09.

          When Jaha calls him John, Murphy grits his teeth and rolls his eyes, hair on his arms and on the back of his neck bristling at how wrong it feels. Actually, Jaha calling him anything feels wrong; Jaha calling him Murphy would feel wrong, too, because Jaha speaking to him feels wrong. When Jaha speaks to Murphy, his voice is sanctimonious, patronizing, “I-know-better-than-you-because-I'm-a-grownup;” Murphy would never call Jaha “Thelonius.” Well, okay, maybe he would, but he'd get his ass kicked for it, and Murphy is sort of a fan of avoiding ass-kickings whenever possible.  
  
          When Abby calls him John, Murphy bristles and has to breathe deeply several times to get his jaw to loosen up, so that he doesn't come swinging at Abby (with his words or with his fists). Unlike Jaha, Abby means well, Abby knows the delinquents have the wisdom and the value of adults. Plus, he (and everyone else) calls her Abby, so it's a more equal exchange when she uses his first name; he can always use hers right back. But it still feels a little like she pities him, and Murphy only tolerates pity when he's looking for it. His name hits him like a punch to the gut when Abby says it, and he has to give it everything he's got to keep himself from punching back.  
  
          When Emori calls him John, though, he feels so full he can hardly bear it. He doesn't know why she does it – because the first person she met who knew Murphy was Jaha, who did it, too, or maybe because Grounders don't have surnames – point is, it does something to him, fills him with the kind of love he thought died with his father when Murphy was a kid. When Emori lays a hand on his shoulder and says “John,” when Emori laughs and shakes her head at him and says “John,” when Emori stands on tiptoe to whisper in his ear, her breath warm on his neck (“John, I think your people are gonna screw us over; let's run away together and leave them at the mercy of the death wave”), when Emori breathes out “John” at increasingly higher pitches until she's screaming it, his head still between her legs, well, he's never felt more like he's at home than then, and never felt like another name could ever suit him better. When Abby calls him from the floor below – “John, Raven's seizing again!” – he's up on his feet, buttoning his pants and throwing on a shirt, and he's Murphy, no matter what Abby calls him, and the world feels heavier and grayer and more solid than it did just moments earlier, but he's okay. He can do Murphy, can handle Abby's “John,” and maybe even Jaha's (no promises, though), if he's just got Emori saying his name, sweet and intimate, locked like an anchor to humanity in his heart.

***

          Clarke has heard her name said a million ways before, and by a million different people. If she wanted to, she could list every instance, in any order – favorite to least favorite, with best intent to worst, from person closest to her heart to person farthest from it. In no particular order, though:  
  
          Clarke's mother, Abby says Clarke's name like a warning, stern and worried, her hand on Clarke's shoulder to keep Clarke from bolting, from doing whatever stupid, hastily-thought-through thing it is Abby thinks she shouldn't be doing. Abby says it in relief, too, when Clarke returns from doing that thing – “Clarke!” like a release of held breath and tension as she wraps her arms around Clarke's shoulders like Clarke is still her little girl. Bellamy is similar – he says her name in anger, looking at her from under a heavy brow, arms crossed over his chest, and he says it with love, nearly crushing Clarke in his arms with a hug.  
  
          Wells said Clarke's name like a plea, at least for that brief time when they were alive together on the ground; it was only on the ground, with people looking to her, that Clarke began to notice how her name was said. Wells made “Clarke” sound like “please,” which was her fault, because she hated him, but she tries not to dwell on that too frequently.  
  
          Raven says Clarke's name in hope, or sometimes bitterness. Monty is the same – he by turn looks to her for guidance and berates her for some choice she's made with which he does not agree.  
  
          Murphy used to say Clarke's name like a curse but now he says it gentler, like he knows she's hurting.  
  
          Jasper treats Clarke's name like it's a swear word now.  
  
          Finn used to say Clarke's name like a prayer, breathless and needy when Clarke was getting him off or when she was riding him. Afterwards, he'd say it again, the way one praises a god when that god has done whatever it is one has prayed for.  
  
          And then there's Lexa. No one has ever said Clarke's name quite like Lexa does – like Lexa did. Clarke doesn't know how to describe it, except to say that it was quiet, almost reverent, but without the need of anything from her that used to make Clarke feel powerful when she was on top of Finn, and later made her grit her teeth and feel irrationally angry with him for needing her. Lexa said Clarke's name with respect, Lexa said it like she understood, Lexa said it like she didn't need anything at all, only wanted however much Clarke was willing and able to give. Clarke loves – loved – loves her for it, god, loves her for not asking things of Clarke that are beyond Clarke's ability to provide, the way Clarke's people do. Lexa said Clarke's name like there was some sort of hidden music to it that Clarke has never heard, and she said it with such conviction that Clarke couldn't help but believe there was. Lexa said Clarke's name in a way that didn't make her feel like there was a weight on her shoulders, and Clarke will forever be grateful for that; she has a duty to her people, always, but it's nice not to feel quite so heavy with it sometimes.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments because I live for them.


End file.
